


Writing Prompt #2: A Language of Flowers

by pixelpiano



Series: Partial Drafts [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Flower Language, Gen, Non-Latin Characters in Text, POV Second Person, Revenge, Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 18:01:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20313700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pixelpiano/pseuds/pixelpiano
Summary: Prompt: After being greatly wronged, you seek out the Goddess of Vengeance to give you advice in your quest for retribution. When people told you tales of Her, you always imagined a powerful warrior, sitting atop a throne made from the skulls of Her enemies. Instead, you discover a kindly old woman tending to a garden outside of a cozy cottage in a peaceful meadow…





	Writing Prompt #2: A Language of Flowers

Surely you had taken a wrong turn somewhere. Eðeanestre’s lair couldn’t look this peaceful, could it?

The old lady smiles kindly when she sees you. “You look a bit perplexed, dearie.”

You explain to her that you have come looking for Eðeanestre, The Bringer of Vengeance.

“You’ve certainly arrived at your destination, then,” she assures you with a wink. She says this effortlessly, but you can feel the deliberate nature behind the words, as if she had been expecting you to arrive.

She tells you that she’ll just be a moment, offering you a seat on her porch while she finishes watering the plants in her garden. You accept, not wanting to disrespect such a feared goddess, and sit obediently in one of the old rocking chairs on the porch. You rest your arms on the armrests, feeling the uneven surface of chipped paint and weathered wood, and try to make yourself comfortable.

Try as you might to not stare at her, you watch the old lady tend to her garden in fascination. She scoots through rows upon rows of various plants—herbs, flowers, fruit and vegetable plants, and more—diligently pruning the old leaves, giving them water, and talking kindly to each and every one of them in turn. You begin to worry how long this will take…

“You’re welcome to some tea while you wait,” she calls out, as if reading your mind. You look over to the side and see all the fixings for two cups of tea upon a small table. You pour your tea, fix it as you like it, and take a sip. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever tasted, and yet still feels nostalgic all the same. Perhaps it’s one of Eðeanestre’s various trials you’ve heard so much about…

“There, then,” the old lady says, suddenly sitting opposite you in the other rocking chair, delicately nursing her cup of tea. “What was it that brought you here, my dear?”

You swallow nervously, trying to mask you fear, though you feel like she can still sense it anyway. You explain the events that took place that day. How the one you had called friend for so many years took away everything you held dear. How you wanted nothing more than for them to know the pain they had put you through that night. How you had heard tales of the fearsome goddess Eðeanestre, who would grant mortals deific vengeance for the right price. How you felt you had nothing more you could possibly lose, and had set out to find her domain to plea with her for your retribution almost three days ago now.

The old woman nods and ‘hum’s along as you speak, as if hearing a familiar folk tale for the hundredth time. “Surely,” she reminds you, “you must have heard that just reaching Eðeanestre’s lair is not the end of this journey?” You catch a hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of her sagging lips, “That there are trials you must face first?”

You nod in acknowledgment. You tell her that you are prepared to face any task she has for you if it will grant you the revenge you seek.

She chuckles when you say that.

“I noticed you watching me garden,” she says, looking out over her vast array of plants. “Did you want to take a closer look at it?”

You are, once again, skeptical of her offer, but still decide to appease her as much as you can and agree. You get up, noticing that she doesn’t follow you, and begin absentmindedly walking down one of the rows of plants.

You never did have much of a green thumb, but you can’t help but notice the strange arrangement of plants. In fact, it would be more accurate to say that there _wasn’t_ any arrangement of the plants. The same type of plant would be scattered across various different rows, and any one row could feature a tropical fruit vine, a winter moss, and a spring flower all right next to each other. Surely there was a better way to do this?

And the plants all had such strange names, like “Hwælu”, “Sciomere”, or “Witel”. It was almost like they were people’s names…

…Perhaps?

You begin searching through the rows, thankful that they are arranged by last name. It doesn’t take you very long to find a plant with your name attached to it. The sight is almost poetic—a single wilted flower, its white petals curled and browning, with smaller yellow and orange buds beginning to grow from the stem.

“A white lilac,” the woman muses from behind you, startling you again, “those are some of my favorites.”

You want to ask her what it means, but you aren’t quite certain you’re brave enough to.

“Youthful innocence,” she replies, as if reading your mind, “and fond memories.”

It seems a little on the nose, doesn’t it?

“I’ll bet there’s another one you want to find now, isn’t there?” she asks with a wink.

You follow her directions to the row a few down from where yours was. Sure enough, you find their name under a fragrant stalk of bay laurel. Where the berries would grow, a blood-orange flower blooms instead.

“The bay represents ambition,” she tells you, “and I’m sure you can guess what the red dahlia blossom means.”

Betrayal. You feel an urge to stamp the little stalk into the ground, or uproot it and leave it to wilt in the sunlight…

“Well then,” she says, “I take it you’ve figured out the garden?”

Parts of it at least. You’re not quite sure you know how it works, though you have your suspicions. Hell, you don’t even know if this really is Eðeanestre’s domain, or just some other creature of the fae that you’ve been wiled by…

“I can see you still have questions,” the woman responds. “They will be answered in time. Come,” she says, beckoning with a gnarled finger, “follow me.”

You follow her back through the rows to your plant, where various gardening tools now lay. You follow her instructions to prune the wilting leaves, fill up a pot with fresh soil, and re-pot your strange, chimeric plant in your own little container.

“Take care of it,” she says, “I couldn’t tell you how if I wanted; you’ll have to figure that part out yourself. Bring it back in one month, and we will see how well you did.”

You nod, and turn around to leave. You dare not risk a final glance behind your back, you doubt she’d even be there if you did look…


End file.
